“Oh! Yes, Your Grace.” She gestured at the chair. “Please.” She turned to Jennings, who waited just outside the door. “Jennings, would you please send up tea for His Grace.”
Wykeham gave a dismissive wave and addressed the butler. “There is no need for that. This visit will not take long.”
Jennings looked at Clara, who shook her head. “Very well. Thank you, Jennings. That will be all.”
The butler disappeared from the doorway, but Clara knew he had not gone far. She turned her attention to the duke, who crossed to the chair, smoothing the tails of his topcoat as he sat. He leaned the cane against the chair, then rested his hands on the arms of it, as if he were holding court, his chin down. He studied Clara as he spoke, his voice a smooth tenor, if overly loud for the small room. “Has your father spoken with you about my visit?”
Clara winced at the volume of his words and fought the urge to flee from the room, to call after Michael, to plead with him not to leave. She was a bit surprised by the intensity of that desire, and she again pushed forward in her mind the words of her parents—duty, burden. They wished to be rid of her. She clutched her fingers together in her lap, looking down at them, realizing the duke was about to become the proverbial pebble in her shoe. “He has, Your Grace.”
“So you understand my intent?”
“I do, sir.”
Wykeham straightened his shoulders and leaned forward approximately one inch, a move so insignificant Clara wondered if he realized he had even made it. She met his eyes again as his lips parted to speak. His eyes widened a bit as he glanced at her hands, and whatever he had been about to say seemed to vanish. He pressed his lips together again, examined her more closely, and when his spoke, his tone had lost some of its formality. “You find this an unpleasant prospect?”
Clara’s chin lifted.If he wanted a challenge...“I cannot say one way or another, Your Grace, as I do not know you. But it seems to me that my desires in this matter are irrelevant. You are in need of a wife. I am in need of a place, sooner rather than later, as my parents wish me to be out of the house as quickly as possible. You are here to see if I will suit you in that role.”
Radcliff choked and coughed.
Wykeham leaned back in his chair, his gaze now traveling over her, bonnet to slipper. After a moment of silence, a smile crossed his face, and he nodded. “Your father warned me that you were outspoken.”
“I am sure he had other warnings as well. He is not a man who would send another into the lion’s den unprepared.”
Wykeham’s laugh echoed off the walls, as did his words. “My God, woman, you are exactly who I was told you were. Terrifying and delightful.”
Clara’s eyebrows arched. “And this description brought you to me?”
He leaned forward again. A bit more than an inch this time, but only a bit. “My estate is up near the Scottish border. It is wild and frigid in the winter and pleasant only a few weeks during the summer. But I prefer it to the city. I spend as little time in London as possible, only when Parliament is in session, as it does not suit me. I have little use for frail girls who will want to huddle by the fire with their needlepoint.” Another inch forward. “I am only recently out of mourning for a wife who was just that.”
“She could not have been very frail if she gave you four children.”
A nod. “She did. Three daughters but only one son, all of whom are beginning to show their own wild streaks. They need more feminine guidance than their nurse can provide. I also find I miss a woman’s companionship, and I would like another son, if at all possible.”
Radcliff made a small hacking sound, as if a hairball had appeared in her throat, and Clara bit her lower lip to keep from laughing.
Wykeham shot a glance at the maid, then gave a dismissive wave with one hand, a twist of the wrist made without lifting his arm from the chair. “I realize it may be improper to speak of such so early in our association—”
“Early indeed, sir.”
“But you will find that I am as direct as you are, and I, of course, have the weight of my title behind my words.”
“I see.”
He leaned back two inches, paused only a second, took a deep breath, then went on, his words bouncing off the walls in harsh waves. “So let us get to the business of it, shall we not?” He reached into his inside coat pocket and placed a folded piece of foolscap on the table. “I have made a list of the events I will be attending over the next two months. The list includes the palettes of each evening’s attire. I expect you to attend each event, and to have your modiste draw up gowns in complementary colors. The first event will be the Blackwell ball Friday fortnight, which should give her ample time to prepare the first frock.”
Clara stiffened. “Your Grace, I do not—”
He gave that dismissive wave again. “Do not worry about the expense. Once we are married, I will reimburse your father for any expenditure along these lines. We will make our association known obliquely at first. If it continues appropriately, I will make it more apparent that my suit of you is progressing. In addition, I will call on you each Tuesday afternoon at two o’clock for conversation and tea, or a promenade in the park if the association goes well. If after these two months, I continue to find we are well suited, then I will consult with your father about the marriage contracts. I expect our betrothal to last no more than a month after which the banns will be read.”
“And if I do not suit?”
“Then I will end the association quietly, as to not embarrass you or your family. If my other prospects do not work, I will retire to my estate and try again next year.”
“So you have other prospects under consideration?”
“Three. A wise man never gathers all eggs into one basket.”
“I appreciate your confirmation that I am little more than an egg.”
